


At the Saint-Maurice

by panickyintheuk



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panickyintheuk/pseuds/panickyintheuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new Abbé was an unassuming man...</p><p>France, 1859. William Graham has just been assigned as Abbé to the Saint-Maurice asylum, the most notorious patient of which is one Doctor Hannibal Lecter.</p><p>Loosely inspired by 'Quills'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Saint-Maurice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tseecka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/gifts).



> So many thanks to [katemonkey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/katemonkey) for her lightning-quick beta job, and her friendship. I stubbornly ignored some of her advice, so if you hate it, it's probably my fault.
> 
> Leah: I really hope you like this!
> 
> All French courtesy of Google translate. Please correct if necessary.

The new Abbé of the Saint-Maurice was an unassuming man, Lecter noted, and yet… not uninteresting. He held himself like a prey animal, tense and ready to flee, but Lecter sensed that this circumspection hid something steely underneath. Monsieur Corneille, the overseer, introduced him as Abbé Graham.

“Graham,” he mused. “Pas un nom français, je pense. Anglais.”

“Mon père était un Anglais,” replied Graham. His voice was soft, but a little rough - it sounded as though it cost him effort to speak.

“Ah! And do you speak English fluently, then? I fancy myself a polyglot, but one has limited opportunities here to practice.”

“I… yes. I have spoken it from the cradle. And your accent is not French, I think?”

“Indeed not. I was born in _Lituanie_. I think we shall be friends, Abbé Graham. We have much in common, it seems.”

Corneille ushered Graham away, then, muttering words of caution into his ear. Lecter was not concerned. He noted that Graham turned to look at him, for an instant, as he was led away, nothing but curiosity in his eyes.

~

Lecter busied himself with his correspondence for the next two days, speaking to the Abbé only briefly as he did his morning rounds. Graham, no doubt, was still learning the workings of the asylum, and it was Benoît who served him his meals, as usual.

“In his last letter, Monsieur Gounod complained that his Faust was not well-received in Paris,” he told Benny in French. “A shame, but the publisher plans to tour it. I think it will do better in Germany, no?”

“No doubt,” said Benny. “And what of Herr Wagner’s latest?”

“I am told it is close to finished,” replied Lecter with distaste. “I do not share your regard.”

“I think you would like me less if I always agreed with you,” said Benny, eyes twinkling.

“You are quite right there. And how is our new director faring?”

“He keeps to himself, so far, but he certainly seems unlikely to prove a tyrant. And some of the maids are very taken with his good looks.”

Lecter laughed. “Are they so starved of eligible bachelors who have not taken vows?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Benny wryly. “These girls will not consider a negro, it seems.”

Lecter’s face fell. “Provincial fools.”

“I am provincial myself, Doctor Lecter.”

“Yes, but no fool. It is a pity. There are many fine and clever women in the world, however, if not within these walls. I have no doubt one will cross your path in time. But we were speaking of Abbé Graham! Do you think he has other qualities, besides his so-handsome face?”

“We shall see,” said Benny.

~

Graham was no physician, and he had not held a post like this before. He had expected raving, at the asylum, and indeed he had encountered it, but it was Doctor Lecter and his composure which had chilled him the most. Jacques had tried to warn him, but he was still taken aback. But then Lecter, by all accounts, was a man of contradictions. Physician, war hero, writer - and killer. Still, he had not been prepared for the man’s magnetism. He tried to make a point of speaking with the more lucid patients, despite his solitary tendencies, but avoided Lecter’s quarters as much as he could without drawing comment. He had heard tales of rodents caught paralysed in the gaze of a snake, and that was how he had felt under Lecter’s regard, particularly when he had spoken to him in lilting, lightly-accented English - the language of his boyhood.

After his first week at the Saint-Maurice, however, he couldn’t help but feel he was neglecting his duties, and so he resolved to visit Doctor Lecter. When he arrived, he found the Doctor already deep in French conversation with one of the servants - Benoît Mathieu, if he recalled correctly.

“Ah, l’Anglais,” came Lecter’s voice, before Will thought he was even in the doctor’s frame of vision. “Come, join us, we were just discussing the works of your countryman. We will speak French, however, if you don’t mind. Benny’s English leaves something to be desired.”

“It is true, I’m afraid,” said Benoît equitably.

“Only because we have not applied ourselves to it yet,” Lecter continued. “Benny has a remarkable mind. Remarkable, I mean, because his early lack of education has not dulled his intellect, as it does so many. In any case, what are your thoughts on Dickens?”

“I have been following A Tale of Two Cities eagerly.”

“Ah, you see, Benny, I am outnumbered. The Abbé agrees with you. Myself, I do not care for his sentimentalism, his self-righteous crusading. Nor, indeed, for his general insistence on happy endings. There are more benevolent rich folk in his stories than in all the world. But his latest is perhaps one of his best, I will allow.”

“And whom would you recommend in his stead?”

“Oh, I am no authority on novels. I prefer the classics. Pushkin, though - there was a talent.”

Graham raised his brows. “I would not have thought to hear you praise a Russian.”

Lecter’s face darkened for a moment, and it was as if every flickering light in the corridor went dim. “Indeed. My war record. Not to mention that of my father, although I was not fortunate enough to know him. No, I have no love for their Empire, but it does not do to throw out the champagne with the cork.”

“A wise philosophy,” said Graham, unsettled. “If you will excuse me…”

“Of course,” said Lecter, once again the picture of gentility, the shadow which had clung to him for a moment gone as if it had never been.

~

One of the privileges afforded Lecter, as a result of his wealth and social standing, was a cell equipped with an impressive library, a wine collection, and a small upright piano. Indeed, Graham’s predecessor had been a believer in the therapeutic qualities of music and art (a legacy Graham intended to honour), but not all the inmates had the inclination or talent, and few of their cells were so well-furnished. When Graham made his mind up to visit Lecter once more, music from the piano accompanied his steps towards the cell. He paused outside, trying to place the music - absurdly, he found himself not wanting to appear ignorant in front of the Doctor. It gathered tempo, but shortly, it ended with a flourish.

“Won’t you join me, Abbé?” said Lecter in English. Graham had not even realised that Lecter knew he was there. He was sure that he was out of sight of the piano - was it possible that Lecter had heard and identified his footsteps over the sound of his playing? No matter. Graham stepped towards the grille separating Lecter’s quarters from the corridor.

“Bach?” he hazarded.

“Indeed,” said Lecter with a small twitch of the lips. “From the Goldberg Variations. As remarkable for its mathematical precision as for anything else. Do you play?”

“I… no. I never learned, but I am sure I have no talent for it. I can appreciate music, but that is all.”

“Perhaps you would enjoy it. I could teach you a little, if you would like.”

Graham hesitated, but unlocked the cell door and stepped inside. He was afraid of Lecter, yes, but… fascinated, too.

Lecter rose from his seat and offered it to Graham, who took it.

“Now, do you read music?”

~

Graham lost track of time as Lecter patiently coached him through the correct placement of his fingers, reaching over his shoulder at times to guide his hand. Lecter’s presence was sturdy but oddly cool behind him; he was reminded, once again, of a reptile. He seemed loath to expend any more energy on movement than necessary, and hence held himself unnaturally still. William, by contrast, had always been a fidget, no more sure in his movement than in his speech - he had had a stutter in childhood, which he had almost entirely overcome, but it had left him in the habit of remaining silent more often than not. Lecter had no such qualms, sure and fluid in his words; he gave off the sense, at all times, of utter control. It was soothing. It was terrifying.

His hand faltered on the keys.

“You are tired,” said Lecter, closer to his ear than he had realised. “We shall continue this another day, if you wish.” William nodded. “It was brave of you to enter my cell,” Lecter continued behind him. “They say that lunatics can display unnatural feats of strength, after all.”

“What reason would you have to hurt me?”

“Do I need a reason? Perhaps I would take pleasure in it. Or perhaps I would violate you. You would be powerless to stop me.”

Dread and excitement coiled in Graham’s gut. He turned, took in the impassive expression on Lecter’s face, and tried to smile. “You want to frighten me, Doctor Lecter?”

“I wanted to voice your unspoken fear. To dispel it. I have enjoyed this visit, and would welcome a repeat.”

“Of course,” said William, his voice betraying him with a crack. He fled, trying to hide that he was fleeing.

He fell asleep that night only with great effort, chasing away errant thoughts of being held down, and left with no choice but to submit.

~

His visits continued. At times Will would play, very badly, at the piano; at others, they would discuss literature, or the other patients. Occasionally he joined Lecter in a glass of wine. They spoke mostly in English, switching to French only when Benoît joined them - but there were times, though infrequent, when Lecter would speak his own language. When this happened, Will held himself even more silent than usual, fearful of breaking the spell.

He grew to appreciate Benoît’s company, too. He did not want to be seen to have favourites amongst the staff, but he would seek him out at times. Benoît, though, seemed always as if he were holding something back, and at last Graham confronted him.

“Is there something you want to say to me?”

Benoît looked at him steadily. “Yes,” he said, “although it is not my place.”

“Go on.”

“I understand your interest in Doctor Lecter. I share it. But be careful not to let your interest extend to trust. He is a caged bear, but he still has his claws.”

“Thank you,” said Graham, a little baffled. Was his - he hesitated to call it a friendship, but his association with Doctor Lecter inappropriate? In his heart of hearts, perhaps he knew. Perhaps God knew. But he asked himself, would it be right to deprive a man so isolated of what company he had?

~

“I have been busying myself with fairytales,” said Lecter on their next meeting, proffering a glass of wine. Graham took it and sat down. He knew less about wine than he did about music, but Lecter’s taste was impeccable, and he always enjoyed it.

“That seems rather beneath you,” he replied bluntly.

“Indeed? I would disagree. I believe folktales have as much to tell us as mythology about human nature. Although this one I have been reading is not a folktale, it was written by Andersen. Would you like to hear it?”

William nodded and closed his eyes, which were beginning to feel heavy. He let Lecter’s words wash over him, the odd phrase tickling at the edges of his consciousness - “my song sounds best in the green wood,” and “she sang of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the elder-tree wafts its perfume on the breeze and the fresh, sweet grass is moistened by the mourners’ tears. Then Death longed to go and see his garden...”

He felt lightheaded, suddenly, and tried to sit up, but his body would not cooperate. He made a fearful sound, and Lecter walked over.

“Are you well?” He placed his hand against Graham’s forehead. It was frigid. “You are very warm.”

“I- I-” Will struggled, but the words were stuck in his mouth, like in dreams when he found himself unable to scream for help, or in his childhood when he became trapped in the grip of that first syllable.

Lecter crouched down beside him, and took Will’s hand between his own - a gesture which was comforting, at first. Then, _this is when he’ll do it_ , thought Will, _when I am trapped and unable to scream_. Whatever sinful images had flashed into his head before, exciting him in the dead of night before he forced them away, the thought merely terrified him now. He found that he could not even draw breath, and he was shaking. Then all went grey.

~

He came to on Lecter’s bed, able to move again. Lecter’s voice spoke soothingly to him.

“There was no answer at the door, and the house was locked fast, so the young king at last told his servants he himself would scale the wall and climb in at the window in order to retrieve the bird.”

He struggled upright, body still sluggish. His cassock was undisturbed, and he felt ashamed of himself for doubting Lecter - ashamed, too, of the fleeting sense of disappointment he felt, now that the danger had passed.

“Do not strain yourself,” said Lecter. “You had a mild epileptic seizure. I will ring for someone to escort you back to your room.”

“I’m not an epileptic,” said Will, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

“No? It is some other problem, then. Squeeze my hand.” Will did so, and Lecter smiled. “I think you are recovered for now, Willukas. Benny or one of the others will be here soon.”

~

“What story were you telling, when I woke up? Not still ‘The Nightingale’? You had finished that?”

“No, it was another. ‘Sole, Luna, e Talia’. Would you liked me to tell it again?”

So Lecter told the story from the beginning - the beloved daughter, cursed; the king who lusts after the sleeping girl; the jealous wife who convinces her husband that he has eaten his own little children; the quick thinking of the cook.

“It is a little like the Perrault tale,” he said at last, when it was over.

“Yes, he rewrote it. But the original was by Basile, the Italian. Rather dark, no? It seems that children were made of sterner stuff 200 years ago. Adultery, cannibalism, the violation of a sleeping virgin… we live in a rather more enlightened age now, of course.” Lecter’s eyes held a smile. Will shivered.

~

Days and weeks passed, and Hannibal kept a close eye on his friend. William’s illness had not been expected, but in many ways it had been a gift. William trusted him now more than ever. Lecter would be sad to leave him. He must ensure that William’s illness was diagnosed before it became fatal - but not yet. With luck, he had some time, and an opportunity might present itself.

He knew that William was both drawn to him and repelled - he could guess what dreams he had planted in his friend’s mind; what secret desires and fears he harboured.

It was a waiting game, and in the end it paid off. One night he smelled William’s approach - he was sweating profusely, smelling of illness and panic. As William fumbled at the lock, Lecter got up and approached the door. When William fell through the open doorway, Lecter caught him without effort, and laid him on the floor.

“I feel as though I am dying,” said Will.

“You are not dying, mano meilė,” said Hannibal. “Just close your eyes.” William obeyed. Hannibal kissed his lips, rang the bell, and ran.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was obvious that I Francified Barney and Jack's names. Mostly they're just soundalikes, but 'Corneille' has a 'crow' root, which is also true of 'Crawford'.
> 
> 'Willukas' is, I sincerely hope, a Lithuanian pet form of 'Will'. If you speak Lithuanian and I'm wrong, please tell me!
> 
> I have no idea whether 'A Tale of Two Cities' was well-received in France, tbqh. If you know a lot about 19th century French history, please forgive all my hand-waving.
> 
> Lecter, Sr. died in the failed Napoleonic invasion of Russia when Hannibal was a baby. Hannibal fought in the Crimean War. That makes Hannibal roughly 47 or 48 years old. Why, that's the same age as Mads Mikkelsen! ;D


End file.
